


one for the birds

by carefulren



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Trauma, blending in some canon with au stuff, just a bunch of boys becoming a family, me just now lmao, no superheroes in this guy, so you can actually control where the story goes?, you ever forget that you are the writer of something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: “There’s this kid,” Roy starts as he begins pacing the small length of the room. “He’s been hanging around Oliver’s place for about a week now. He’s doesn’t beg for money or anything, he just… watches the store. All day.”Crossing his arms, Dick waits patiently. He’s heard this type of scenario multiple times before, but Roy’s demeanor is telling him that there’s a catch. Then again, Dick’s grown to learn that there’s always a catch.“So, I finally approached him. Went through the whole spiel: asked him if he was lost, had a home, needed a place to stay, yadda, yadda.”“And?”“He told me to fuck off.”(the one where Dick runs a homeless shelter for Gotham's youth, picks up a few interesting strays, and has somehow gained the attention of one billionare Bruce Wayne)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 253





	1. it's arsenal now (Dick)

“Dick?”

Dick’s mid pull up, the wooden rafter rough against his palms. He glances to see one of the new ones, Jenny, standing hesitant in the doorway, her eyes cast downward and one foot scuffing the dusty floor.

He lets go of the rafter, dropping to the floor with practiced ease. “What’s up, Jenny? Everything okay?” He keeps his tone light, inviting, as he does with all the new kids.

When Jenny looks up, her matted, brown hair hangs forward in her face, half hiding her wide, trembling eyes. Dick studies the fear silently, his jaw clenching, as he waits for Jenny to gather up the courage to say what she needs to say. He’s learned far too quickly that if he pushes anyone here to speak before they’re ready, they’ll lash out via flying fists or running away. After five punches to the jaw and three near death runaway scenarios, he worked on building trust with each person that stumbles upon his shelter.

“Some man is here to see you.”

Shit. Dick rakes his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair to hide the slight tremors jolting through his hands. Could be the cops, he thinks. Though, he’s made it very clear to everyone that he’s only able to maintain this warehouse as a shelter with the promise to GCPD that everyone will behave. There’s too much crime in Gotham as it is, one cop had said to him, so if he keeps his kids in line, the cops will turn a blind eye to the trespassing.

Maybe not the cops, then. Unless there’s been trouble with one of his kids. But then, he would have heard about it by now. Word of mouth travels fast amongst his crew. He mentally picks through today’s schedule, running brief analyses over each person on today’s food crew. He currently has a handful of troublemakers, a rowdy group of pre-teens taking their anger of their current life situation out on each other. But, he’s been keeping their daily duties separate to avoid conflict, so—

“Yo, Nightwing!”

The budding fear diminishes the second Dick hears the rough, familiar voice accompanied by steady footsteps that deliberately avoid each creak in the stairs. He smiles at Jenny and nods to the door. “Thanks, Jenny. I’ll take it from here.”

The second Jenny turns, she bumps into Roy, who steadies her with a hand clapping down to her shoulder.

“Why thank you, sweet messenger.”

Dick cocks a brow as Roy steps around Jenny and enters the room, arms as wide as the smile stretching across his mouth.

“Code names again, Roy? Really?”

Roy crosses the room and slaps a hand across Dick’s mouth, and Dick has to swallow back the annoyed urge to lick his palm.

“No speaking of Roy Harper here, Dickie. Only Arsenal when I cross through this threshold.”

Dick swats Roy’s hand away, tilting his head. “Arsenal? That’s new.”

“Yeah, well, I decided to stop rolling with Speedy. Sounded too drug-like, if you ask me.”

Nodding, Dick side steps around Roy and jumps up until his hands are latching onto the low-hanging rafter above him. He ignores the unsettling creaking against his weight as he pulls himself up until his chin’s tapping the top of the rafter.

“Well, _Arsenal_ ,” Dick starts, dragging out the new code name, trying to gather a feeling of it on his tongue. “What brings you here?”

“Well, first of all, you are looking at the new mid-day stocker at Queen’s Market and Café.”

“Shit, you got the job?” Dick drops down after his tenth pull-up and arches his back into a stretch before moving downward to work through a set of push-ups.

“Yep, Oliver said he sees real potential in me. He said I’m a good last piece to his arsenal.”

Dick pauses, laughing lowly under his breath. “Of stockers and baristas?”

“Yeah, he’s kind of a weird dude, but he gave me an advance so I could get an apartment.”

“Have you told him about…” Dick doesn’t finish; he doesn’t need to. The dark flash that pulls across Roy’s face says enough.

“He knows I’ve been in between homes, but that’s it.”

Dick can fill in the gaps easily. He’s been in this warehouse since he was 12, after fleeing from his first foster family. Roy joined him not long after, and together, the two built this place up, swaying reputation and all. He finishes his tenth push-up and slowly gets to his feet, a sigh slipping past his lips.

“I’m not embarrassed by it, Dick. It is what it is. I just… Oliver sees so much in me. I don’t want—”

“You don’t want him to judge based on this,” Dick finishes for him, gesturing around the two. The room, one everyone’s dubbed as “Leader’s Lair” for years now, has a sleeping bag in one corner and a box in another. There’s a pile of worn-out books beside the sleeping bag, and a beat-up, battery-powered lamp off to the side. It’s bare boned, but it’s been home for Dick for years.

“I get it, Roy, and I’m happy for you.”

“I can still help,” Roy starts, quick tone mismatched from the determination lighting his eyes, “so you aren’t out busting your ass every night for minimum wage to feed everyone. I can give you money—”

“It’s fine,” Dick interrupts, and he means it. More than just offering a place for people in need, Dick wants to push everyone to better themselves, to thrive off independence, and Roy did just that. He doesn’t want anyone to feel like they owe him or this place anything. “I mean, I’m not saying that if we cross paths, I’m not going to insist you treat me to lunch,” he jokes, jabbing Roy with his elbow. “But that money is yours, Roy. We’ll get along just fine.”

There’s conflict in Roy’s eyes, the fire dimmed, and Dick’s already prepared to counter-argue anything that comes out of Roy’s mouth, and he knows Roy knows this; the two have been butting heads for years, but Dick’s wit always gives him the upper hand.

“Fine, but the next ten burgers are on me.”

Smiling, Dick claps a hand to Roy’s shoulder. It’s only been a few weeks since Roy left to pester Oliver Queen daily regarding the “Help Wanted” sign outside his shop, and he’s genuinely glad to see him.

“What else?” Dick asks finally. “You said ‘first of all,’ so what else?”

Roy’s smile drops instantly, and Dick matches his frown, his own brows furrowing.

“There’s this kid,” Roy starts as he begins pacing the small length of the room. “He’s been hanging around Oliver’s place for about a week now. He’s doesn’t beg for money or anything, he just… _watches_ the store. All day.”

Crossing his arms, Dick waits patiently. He’s heard this type of scenario multiple times before, but Roy’s demeanor is telling him that there’s a catch. Then again, Dick’s grown to learn that there’s always a catch.

“So, I finally approached him. Went through the whole spiel: asked him if he was lost, had a home, needed a place to stay, yadda, yadda.”

“And?”

“He told me to fuck off.”

“Look, Roy, I don’t—”

“Look, man, I know, okay? Frankly, the kid’s a prick, but I’ve just got this feeling—he just… he’s been through some shit, man. I can just tell. And weirdly enough, I don’t think he’s _casing_ Oliver’s place. I just think he’s tired, and he needs help.”

“I don’t force people to come here.” Dick replies flatly, and Roy nods quickly.

“I know. I just… You’ve got a way with people, Dick. You know I’m shit at talking to people, but you? You could help him.”

“I can only help people who want to be helped.”

“He does. Just trust me on this?”

Dick moves to the small, cracked window, shuddering slightly at the chilly breeze that filters in through the splintering gaps. It’s nearing the end of October now, so he should probably work on re-covering gaps in windows to keep the warmth in now that it’s getting a lot colder.

There are numerous uncertainties flicking through his mind, the top one being that he’s bringing someone dangerous into the warehouse. He has too many kids to keep safe, with the youngest being only 7. He’s accepted long ago that he can’t physically save everyone and that some people just aren’t going to work in the warehouse. Still, among the sea of uncertainties currently attempting to drown his brain, there’s one small, nagging bubble of air that he can’t help but cling to.

Dick’s been there before. After watching his parents die, he shut down, and he’s spewed his fair share of curses at adults trying to “help,” not understanding at the time why he couldn’t just shut himself away to properly grieve. He didn’t have anyone to help him; he worked through his shit on his own, until Roy came along. So maybe…

“Name?” He sighs, turning from the window.

“What?”

“You said you talked to him. Did you manage to get his name?”

“Oh, definitely not. After he told me to fuck off, I stayed, and he very calmly threatened to slit my throat in my sleep.” 

Dick swallows thickly around a pull of instant regret. “There are multiple kids that hang around Oliver’s. How will I know who he is?”

“Easy,” Roy starts. “He’s always got this red hood pulled up and over his head.”


	2. jason (Dick)

Dick waits until nightfall to venture out in seek of this red hood kid Roy was so insistent on. He figures that at night, he’s minimizing the chance of innocent bystanders notifying the police of some brat cursing and threatening violence, so he waits until 10, when he’s confident most of Gotham is tucked in and ready for sleep, to don his jacket and creep around multiple sleeping bodies, stopping to see Trevor, one his older and more responsible, standing by the door and looking anything but happy.

“Are you sure about this, Dick? You know how Gotham is at night. You could get hurt.”

The worry lines etched across Trevor’s forehead don’t fit against his otherwise youthful face. He’s 15, and he bumped into Dick on the street when he was 11. Since then, he’s proven time and time again that he’s a natural born leader that was a victim to an abusive foster family. Since Roy left, Trevor’s been Dick’s go-to to take charge whenever he leaves. He’s the only other person in the warehouse, aside from Dick, who has a pre-paid flip phone, and he knows, as Dick’s practically carved it into his brain, to only use the phone to call Dick for emergencies.

“I go out every night for work,” Dick replies simply, not wishing to shut down Trevor’s concern as unwarranted but also hoping to ease his concerns with sound reasoning.

“You’re actively seeking out some brat who threatened to kill Roy.”

Shit, Dick thinks, realizing, now, that he and Roy should have been significantly quieter when discussing this earlier. He contemplates a few responses, opting for misplaced humor. “Most people probably threaten to kill Roy upon first meeting. You know how he is.” He offers a half-smile, but Trevor doesn’t give in.

“Dick, seriously. He sounds like bad news.”

“Maybe,” Dick agrees around a hollow sigh, “but I also trust Roy’s judgement, so I have to see.” On habit, he pats his jacket pocket to ensure his knife is there. He’s never had to use it. There’s been some close calls, but he’s been able to talk his way out of them or use his fists. And, he’s confident he won’t be using it tonight. Still, just the knowledge that he’s got it on him keeps him grounded.

“You know how shitty the system is, Trev. He could just be hurting really badly, and he’s showing his pain through anger.”

“Will you text me when you’re at work?”

Dick isn’t a fan of wasting the minutes on the phones because minute cards are expensive, but the phones, he’s quickly learned, are necessary. Still, he hates seeing these kids worry—shitty living situation aside, he still wants them to be kids as much as possible.

“Sure, and you’ll text me if he shows up?”

Trevor nods, the phone gripped tightly in his hand, and Dick pats him on the shoulder, offering a warm smile, and pulls open the door.

“Try and relax, Trev,” Dick calls over his shoulder. “If all else fails, you know I can win in a fight.”

“That doesn’t help, Dick!”

Dick laughs, waving over his shoulder, and it’s not until he hears the door close that his smile gives way to a flat line. He’s been tipped off on kids in need before, but he’s never sought out one with such a deep, unsettling pit in his stomach. He’s been weighing on the situation all day, trying to compare red hood’s situation to his own just based on Roy’s conversation with him alone. It’s kept his just on edge, so much that he couldn’t even sleep more than an hour.

And with all of the pros and cons warring in his mind, he keeps coming back to the persistent need to help, to the idea that this kid may be in some serious need of safety, of compassion, and like it is with every situation, that persistence so prominent in the back of his mind triumphs over everything else.

He cuts down a few alleys he’d normally steer clear of to save time. The last thing he wants is to be late to the one job he’s been able to snag and hold without proper ID. Is he getting paid under the table to load boxes of supplies from sunken in shelves to a truck? Yes. Has he been told that he doesn’t need to worry about what’s in the boxes? Yes. But money is money. Money is food on the makeshift table for the 14 kids he’s currently housing, so for the time being, he’s turning a blind eye to his morals.

He passes by a few ex-convicts, and though he internally tenses, having seen their faces pasted all over newspaper stands just months ago, he keeps his outer composure calm, and as he expects, they leave him be. He’s not looking for a fight, and neither are they, having, he assumes, already spent their fair share locked up in Arkham Asylum after running with Joker for a time.

Still, whether he’s looking or not, sometimes others thrive off the fight. Though he can normally talk his way out of a backed in corner, there’s been a few times he’s been forced to fight back. He doesn’t like to do it, but he also isn’t looking to die anytime soon.

He rounds a corner that leads out to a dark, open street. The overhead streetlights are flickering, the product of poor funding that’s not even the slightest bit surprising, but even though mostly dark, he can still spot a dark red hood cowering against a building across the street from Queen’s. Considering that there’s no other kids out, he figures he’s got his guy, so he crosses the street, noting, impressed, that the kid’s already looking up and right at him despite his deliberate attempt to keep his footsteps soft.

This kid, Dick thinks, is well aware of his surroundings, and though the scowl painted across his face says anything but, Dick’s got a sinking suspicion that it’s the product of fear and fear alone.

“Hey,” he says calmly when he approaches. He keeps a safe distance away, close enough that he doesn’t have to shout on the otherwise quiet street but far enough that he can flee if he needs to.

The kid doesn’t respond, and upon closer look, Dick’s wondering just how much of a “kid” this kid is. He’s on the younger side, but he’s sporting some fading scars across his shadowed face, and as Roy suspected, he looks tired. There are dark tufts of unruly hair sticking out from the hood, with one section of his long bangs sporting an old bleach job, leaving the ends an off white. Concerning, more than anything else, are the kid’s eyes. Cold, guarded… eyes that have clearly seen some shit. Dick’s seen it before in his own reflection shortly after his parents died, so he knows, firsthand, how hard it is to chip away from that ice.

Dick’s heart does the thing, as Roy so nicely puts it. It flips and pangs with a burning need to help, to protect, but he breathes out a low sigh instead, calming himself. “I’m Dick.” He takes a tentative step forward, testing the waters, and then he takes another, and another, until he’s close enough to crouch down in front of the kid and extend his hand. He doesn’t expect the kid to take his hand, but he offers the kind gesture anyway, dropping his hand after a moment.

“Do you need—”

“No. Fuck off.”

Dick’s silently thankful for the warning from Roy beforehand as he’s had ample time to work through varying scenarios of how this conversation would pan out, and the immediate shut down, as what he’s just received, was always a front runner.

“Sorry, I’m bad at that,” Dick fires back easily, “and if your next response is to threaten to slit my throat, well, not going to happen.”

The kid looks taken aback, but only for a breath of a moment. He narrows his eyes, dragging a sharp gaze across Dick, and Dick remains utterly calm and composed under the weight of the gaze.

“Not your throat. I’d slit your heels.”

Dick cocks his head to the side, visibly interested. “Weird, but okay. I’ll leave you be, but,” he reaches into his pocket, freezing when the kid jerks to a tense. He holds his free hand up in a clear show of defense and pulls a small paper from his pocket, offering it to the kid. “I have this warehouse. Well, it’s not exactly mine. GCPD knows about it, but they’re okay with us squatting so long as we stay out of trouble. Anyway, it’s shelter, warmth, and food. You’re welcome to come stay with us if you want.”

The kid only stares flatly at him, not making a move to take the paper, so Dick, in a spur of bold dumbness, tucks the paper loosely into the kid’s boot. “I have one rule, though. I’ve got a lot of kids there, and I don’t tolerate any bullshit. Those kids in there? They are my family. My door is always open to expand, but only if I’m sure no one is going to hurt them. They’ve been through enough as it is.”

“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

Dick offers a mock salute as he gets to his feet. “Stay safe out here, kid.” He turns to leave, and though he doesn’t expect the kid to call out to him, to ask him to wait, to declare his need for help, his shoulders still sink when the kid remains listlessly silent behind him as he disappears around a corner.

The rest of his way to work, he ponders the severely one-sided conversation. He considers what he could have done better, replays the kid’s small yet entirely too-loud movements that appeared result from fear. That faded, white color in his bangs was… different, Dick thinks. He knows there’s a story behind it, and he shamelessly admits to himself that he’s eager to know.

He’s lost in his thoughts when he reaches the open garage, only coming back to the present when his boss shouts at him.

“You’re late!”

Blinking slowly, Dick slips his phone from his pocket. He’s on time, he thinks as he stares at the blinking numbers. He’s actually a few minutes early, but he also knows that speaking up to these guys is not going to help anything. Instead, he mutters a small “sorry” and fires off a quick text to Trevor to let him know he made it.

To his surprise, his boss sighs loudly, and rubs large hands down his face.

“Shit, kid, sorry. Penguin’s on our asses tonight. Says he needs this shit ASAP.”

Dick shrugs out his jacket, draping it across a chair. “Well, let’s not keep him waiting, then.”

He works mindlessly for hours, lugging one heavy box after the next. Despite the cold air billowing in from the open garage door, he’s sweating. The boxes, he thinks, seem heavier than usual, and there’s a lot more, so much that his boss has stepped in to help, if only for a few minutes.

It takes about an hour longer than every other night to get all the boxes loaded and secured onto the back of the truck, and he’s drained by the time he’s tucking the last box into the truck. He steps out with a deep sigh, and his boss claps his shoulder, his normally burly, cold exterior cracking today.

“Here’s your pay, kid. I slipped in an extra $20 for the overtime.”

To many people, $20 may not sound like a lot, but Dick’s already calculating what he can purchase with the extra money. They’re running low on shampoo and conditioner, and the scissors they’ve been using for haircuts broke. He could also swing by Goodwill for some more blankets, with winter already bearing its sharp teeth over Gotham.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, grateful, and his boss only grunts and turns his back.

“Same time tomorrow.”

“Same time tomorrow,” Dick agrees, and he slips his jacket on, securely pocketing the money, and starts back to the warehouse.

Tonight, more so than most nights, he’s thankful the warehouse is only a 15-minute walk to his job for he’s bone tired. The lack of sleep is really hitting him, and it’s nearing 5 AM. He’s operating on an hour of sleep, and his mind’s heavy, filled with things he needs to do, stuff he needs to buy, and the kid.

His feet are practically dragging by the time the warehouse comes into view, and as he walks to the door, he stops, catching a faint color of red from his peripheral. He breathes out a sigh so deep and swollen in his lungs, he was unaware he’d been holding it in that long.

“Well, are you going to come in? Or are you just going to lurk in the shadows?”

The kid steps out from where he’s been standing behind a tree, the scowl back on his face, and yet, Dick faintly makes out the paper with the warehouse’s address scribbled on it crumpled in a tight fist.

“Good to see you again, kid.” He arches a brow, eyes briefly scanning the kid now that he’s standing. He’s strong. He’s on the smaller side, but his muscles are shaped even through the baggy, red hoodie he’s got on. Dick’s been itching for a sparring partner since Roy left, and he thinks he may finally meet his match.

“I’m 19.”

Dick has plenty of kids who come through and try to pass off as adults, but the older he gets, the more he learns to catch a lie while hot in the act. Still, he’s inclined to believe the kid. “Well, what can I call you? Since you’re clearly not a kid.”

“Jason.”

Not much of a talker, Dick thinks, but he can work with that, as he’s known to do most of the talking for people anyway.

He opens his mouth to reply only to be cut off by the front door being thrown open.

Trevor’s storming toward him, anger whipped across his face. “Jesus Christ, Dick. You’re an hour late! I thought you were lying dead in a ditch!”

Dick smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I had to work over. Sorry. I should have texted.”

“You should have,” Trevor sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “No sign of your delinquent, by the way.”

Dick freezes, hand going hot against his neck, and Jason picks that moment to step forward fully, the scowl replaced with a flat, unreadable expression that pricks at Dick’s nerves.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t know Dick came home with a guest. I’m Trevor, and you are…?”

Jason shifts a gaze between Trevor and Dick, a calculated pull of the eyes between the two. “I’m the delinquent,” he says lowly before he shoves past Dick and starts down the street, away from the warehouse.

“Shit, oh shit. Was that him?” Trevor’s stammering, his face as red as the hair on his head. “Shit. Fuck. He’s going to slit my throat, isn’t he?”

Dick groans deep in his throat. “He’s not going to slit your throat.” He can’t explain why he can answer that confidently, but he can. “Can you start breakfast?”

“Yeah, but where are you going?”

“To get Jason.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to upload this tomorrow and then swap to a once a week schedule with Friday uploads, but fuck it. Last AO3 update of 2020! 
> 
> Next chapter will be 1/8/2021. 
> 
> If you want, you can come say hi on tumblr! (@toosicktoocare)


	3. this isn't home (Dick)

Adrenaline, Dick thinks, is his best friend as it’s the one thing that’s driving his legs to move forward, to keep pounding against pavement. Luckily, Jason didn’t get far. He stopped down an alleyway five minutes from the warehouse, and the second Dick approaches, his stomach twists uncomfortably because Jason’s in an apparent argument with someone who’s frighteningly close to Jason’s face and shouting far too loud.

Dick briefly thumbs the knife in his jacket and sucks in a careful, deep breath. As he walks forward, he can hear that the two are arguing over cigarettes, specifically, that Jason won’t give a cigarette to the man. In a few short strides and practiced, quick motions, Dick manages to snag the cigarette from Jason’s teeth, squeeze his body between the two, and pop the but of the cigarette in the other man’s mouth when he’s got it hanging open mid-shout.

“What the _fuck_?”

Jason’s tone is dangerous behind Dick, but he chooses to ignore it for now because he really needs to deflate the situation before GCPD gets wind that he was involved.

“Is there any way we can work this out quietly?”

“All I did was ask this brat for a smoke, and he spat in my face and told me to fuck off. Fucking privileged piece of shit—”

“Privileged? You don’t know a fucking thing about me—”

“Okay,” Dick drags out loudly, bracing one arm out to keep Jason behind him. He glances over his shoulder. “Give me the cigarettes.”

“ _What_?”

“Give me the cigarettes,” Dick repeats slowly, voice low, edging a dangerous line.

“No.”

Dick breathes through a rare, biting jolt of anger and clenches his jaw. “I’ll buy you more.” He’s not sure he’s going to actually follow through with this, but the faint sound of a siren has got him quick talking to de-escalate as fast as possible.

“You got money, pretty boy?”

That… Dick did not expect, and the words burn in his ears. He’s heard it before, more than he’d like to admit, but today? When he’s operating on an hour of sleep after a long work shift? His mind blanks hot against the words, and he’s slamming his fist into the guy’s stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him before his mind can clear long enough to process what he’s doing. The man stumbles to his knees with a gasp, and in another, quick moment, Dick rips the pack of cigarettes from Jason’s hand and tosses it to the ground before the guy.

“ _Let’s go_ ,” he growls into Jason’s ear, and he’s faintly surprised to find that Jason obliges and follows him out of the alley. Dick’s making his way back to the warehouse, but he’s cutting down different streets, turning the 5-minute walk into a 15-minute one in case the man decides to trail them for round two.

Once he’s close enough to see the old, crumbling building peeping over the horizon, an eyesore against a cloudy sunrise, he drops down against a tree with a sigh, shaking out his hand. It’s been a while since he’s thrown such a punch; his knuckles are faintly throbbing, along with his head. He looks up to see Jason standing before him, and for the first time in the short amount of time he’s known Jason, Jason’s sporting a surprised expression, a little soft around hard edges.

“Sorry,” Dick says, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m tired. What he said… it set me off.” He thumbs the money in his pocket, sighing lowly. “How much?”

“I… What?”

“The pack of cigarettes. How much do you need to replace them?”

“You don’t need…” Jason sighs, seemingly frustrated, and he rakes shaking fingers through his hair. “It’s fine.”

Dick bites back the want to say “good” to Jason because smoking’s bad, and 19 seems far too young to rely on nicotine inhalation, but then his mind trickles back to Jason’s strangled growl to the man: ‘You don’t know a fucking thing about me.’

Of all things, he can’t shake the weight behind those words from his mind. He cranes his neck toward the direction of the warehouse. He should go back, make sure everyone’s okay, join everyone for breakfast. But, despite the exhaustion pushing against every inch of every bone, his heart’s still beating a little too fast in his chest. He’s still too wound up, and the others will know the second he walks through the door, just from his face alone, that something happened. He needs to calm himself.

“Let me buy you breakfast.”

Jason blinks slowly. “What?”

“Breakfast? Most important meal of the day?”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Jason spits out dryly. “Why?”

“Because I’m hungry? And I’m not one to assume, but if I had to guess, you’re also hungry. Nicotine can only curve your appetite for so long, you know.” Dick gets to his feet with a muted groan, his muscles protesting. “Look, you’ve got your problems, and I’ve got mine, but at the end of the day, we have to look out for each other.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“And you don’t know me, yet you showed up.” Dick cocks his head to the side, silently inviting Jason to counter-argue, but, to his faint surprise, Jason only sighs and motions forward.

“Lead the way.”

They walk in a slightly tense yet oddly companionable silence, and for once, Dick’s thankful. He’s not sure that he can handle chatter right now, and if he had to put money on it, he’d say Jason feels the same.

By all accounts, he should tell Jason this isn’t going to work. He’s known him for less than a day, and he’s already had to break up a fight. There’s no telling what will happen in a house with 14 other kids, and Dick knows he shouldn’t risk it, he shouldn’t risk putting any of his kids in a situation that’s either dangerous or uncomfortable.

But the underlining, nagging feeling that he _must_ help Jason is more apparent now, stronger, even if Jason appears frighteningly unstable, a ticking time bomb with a hidden countdown. He can’t help but think Jason’s only like this because he’s alone, and if he could just show Jason that even if it feels like the world’s completely turned its back on him, there are still people who care—

“Dick!”

Dick blinks slowly. Jason’s shaking his shoulder, and they’re standing just outside a McDonalds. “Sorry, what?”

“We’re here? You’ve just been staring at the door for fucking ever now.”

Fuck, Dick thinks. He really needs to sleep. He opens the door and slips inside, and in just minutes, he’s cradling a large, hot coffee between cold hands while Jason picks at a sausage biscuit across from him.

With caffeine pumping through his system, Dick feels more human for the first time in hours now. His mind, though tired, is clearer, and the more he thinks about gut-punching a random guy in the alleyway an hour ago, the more he wants the seat below him to open up and swallow him hole, just for a little while, just until he gets his head straightened out on his shoulders.

He clears his throat, catching Jason’s attention. “Want to tell me why you spat in that guy’s face?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” Dick sighs, and he finishes his breakfast in silence. He can tell that Jason’s itching to flee the second he finishes his coffee, as if waiting for an invitation to run, so Dick quickly sips the rest of his coffee then slides to his feet, watching Jason do the same a little too quickly.

Dick pulls the extra $20 he earned from his pocket, hesitates, and offers it to Jason.

“I said it was fine.”

“Just take it. Use it for dinner tonight. Cigarettes. I don’t care. For peace of mind, just take it, okay?”

“No.”

“I have a stable income. I’ll get more.”

“You also have kids to take care of.”

Dick drops the $20 on the table. “We get by.” He drops a hand to Jason’s shoulder, making a mental note of the breath of a flinch he can feel under his palm. “I’m not going to force you to join us at the warehouse, but the door’s open for you, only if you want.” He gives Jason’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take care of yourself, Jay.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jason’s face pulls briefly to furrowed conflict before flattening out to an expressionless portrait. Jason nods, and Dick returns the nod before slipping out of the restaurant.

Dick’s not sure if it’s enough, but he hopes someday Jason will accept the invitation, maybe when he’s settled himself down. Still, he knows he can’t push him; he can’t push anyone to do something they don’t want. He can’t expect people to trust him if he doesn’t trust them to make the decision that’s best for them, after all.

***

Dick’s dead on his feet by the time he gets back to the warehouse. With the breakfast and the money he gave to Jason, he had to forgo the blankets this week in favor of food. He can give his spares to the others; he’ll get by until he can get more.

When he walks into the door, he’s bombarded with hugs and multiple shouts of his name. He stumbles against the sudden weight of little arms wrapping around his legs and torso, and then Jas and Trevor are rushing toward the door, dirty dishes in hand.

“Jesus, Dick. Where the hell did you go?”

“Did you find Jason? Is he going to slit my throat?”

“What the hell is he talking about, Dick?”

“Okay,” Dick drags out. “Firstly, let’s not curse in front of the kids, yeah?” He cocks a brow to Jas and Trevor, and both turn sheepish gazes to the floor, apologies hot on their tongues.

“Secondly, yes, I found him.”

“Is someone going to hurt you, Dick?”

“I don’t want anyone to hurt you!”

The crying that follows has Dick dragging a knowing gaze toward Jas and Trevor, a silent reminder that he’s trying to shelter these kids as much as possible. He crouches down, abandoning the bag of groceries to floor at his side.

“No one’s going to hurt me. I promise.”

A younger girl, Marina, who’s been finding her balance in the warehouse for a few months now, tilts her head to the side. “What’s Trevor talking about, then?”

“You know how some people say stuff they don’t mean?”

From her spot, Jas calls out, “like when you say you aren’t tired?”

She’s a spitball, Dick thinks. A year younger than Trevor, but she’s got the sass to match every person in this entire warehouse. He arches a brow, a light warning that she waves away with a dirty spoon.

“Poor example, but sure. Jason said something to Roy he didn’t mean.”

The questions that follow are loud and overwhelming, so Dick climbs back to his feet and clears his throat. “The point is,” he shouts, catching everyone’s attention, “everything’s fine. I’m fine. You all are fine. And no one is getting hurt. Okay?”

He’s thankful the younger kids trust him enough to agree without further questions, and he slips around little, running bodies to pass the groceries off to Jas.

“Everything okay?” she asks, voice hushed now, and Trevor peers over the bucket of water he’s setting up to wash dishes.

“I’m _not_ tired,” he says deliberately, and Jas rolls her eyes.

“And I’m _not_ about to punch you,” Jas fires back with a wink that Dick waves away, an easy laugh swelling warm from his lungs.

“We’re glad you’re okay, Dick. Trevor was about to band a whole crew together to find you.”

“I was not!”

Rolling his eyes, Dick slips past Jas to ruffle Trevor’s hair, a brief, fond notion he’s gotten into the habit of. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I came back. I’d stay and help,” he starts, yawning, “but…”

“Go sleep, idiot. We’ll wake you if we need you.”

Dick uses his last bout of energy to climb the two flights of steps up to his room. He sheds his jacket, abandoning it on the floor, and collapses onto his sleeping bag. With his face pressed to the floor, he can hear the ruckus below him. When he and Roy first started gaining in numbers, everyone tip toed around when he announced he was going to rest, but the noise reminds him of the circus, of the constant, loud hustle and bustle of each day as they prepped for a show, so he insisted the noise is, in itself, a blanket of comfort for him. Since then, everyone’s learned to go about their business.

So, even with the ruckus below him, Dick nods off with a small smile pulling at his lips.

***

It’s not the sound that wakes Dick; it’s the lack thereof. The normal, loud commotion from downstairs has cut off like someone hitting a switch, and he jerks awake, a cold sweat pricking at the back of his neck. Silently, he leaps to his feet, noting that it’s growing dark outside. He feels around the floor for his jacket and slips his knife out, flicking it open as he creeps down the stairs.

When he reaches the landing that opens out to the main room of the warehouse they’ve been using as their dining and living room, he freezes, sucking in a sharp gasp. Everyone’s gathered around their makeshift table of boxes pushed together, all frozen and looking to the door, and Dick follows their eyes to see Jason standing in the doorway, a Chinese food bag in hand.

It takes Dick far too long to find his voice, but when he does, he croaks out a weak “Jason?”

“I brought Chinese,” Jason says flatly, dropping the bag of food on one of the boxes and beelining to the stairs. He stops before Dick, and the smile that stretches across Dick’s face is overwhelmingly genuine.

“Welcome home, Jay.”

“This isn’t home.”

Jason shoves past Dick to go up the stairs, and though Dick stumbles a little, he smiles still, waving to the others, who still appear frozen in place, with only their necks gaining movement to whip their heads in time with Jason’s movements, stopping at Dick on the stairs.

“Carry on,” Dick calls over his shoulder as he starts back up the stairs. “Save us some Chinese!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter is okay!


	4. do it yourself (Jason)

Jason’s not sure where he’s going, but he’s camped out in his fair share of warehouses, so he wanders, partially relying on muscle memory, until he finds a small room on the third floor. The door’s open, and with the fading light casting a low glow through the cracked window, he can see a sleeping bag, a lamp, and a stack of books that mutely catch his eye.

Based on size and location, he assumes this used to be an office, probably some cushy room with a plush carpet and a stupid large desk for some fat bastard who sat up here all day while his employees busted their asses for less than minimum wage. He makes his way over to the books and drops into a crouch, finger idly trailing down the spines of the ratty paperbacks, all old classics and a few he hasn’t read yet.

He’s not surprised to hear the door creak open behind him, and he opts to keep his attention to the books, slipping one he’s not read out of the stack and scanning the back.

“You can have it, if you want. I’ve already read it.”

Jason finally hoists himself to his feet, and he turns, book in hand, toward Dick, assessing with a silent gaze alone. Dick’s eyes are annoyingly blue and warm, inviting, but cautiously so. He’s fit, and Jason can’t help but wonder how someone in his situation can remain in top form. A contrast to his muscles that push against the fabric of his shirt, his face is… kind, soft, and Jason can’t help but scoff at it, perplexed as to how someone like Dick exists in Gotham.

“I’m not staying,” Jason informs roughly, dropping the book onto the sleeping bag.

“I’m not going to force you to.”

Ugh. Jason hates how genuine each consonant sounds coming off Dick’s tone. It’s annoying, borderline captivating, yet like every aspect of Jason’s life, there’s a catch, a mountain of a road bump that that will toss him over the edge, drop him abandoned in the woods, and leave him to the wolves.

“Just until it’s warmer out.” Jason watches Dick nod knowingly, and he wonders how often Dick’s heard this before.

“However long you need.” Dick motions to the sleeping bag, and Jason catches a brief glint of the knife Dick’s got secured tightly in his hand. He arches one brow, and Dick snaps the knife shut with apparent, practiced ease.

“Sorry. Precaution.” Dick bends down to snag his jacket, slipping the knife into the pocket.

Jason watches, studying each of Dick’s deliberate movements, something he’s picked up on doing after… He shakes his head, a deep gravel of a sigh building up his throat. He must look the definition of exhausted because Dick once again motions to the sleeping bag, more intently this time, and his face morphs into one of sharp determination that’s somehow not overbearing.

“You look like you could use some rest. I have to leave for work in a few hours, so you can use my room. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

Sleep, Jason thinks. When’s the last time he’s done that? Properly? He glances back at the sleeping bag, hesitant, and his reluctance unconsciously bleeds within his posture, enough for someone as apparently perceptive as Dick for the latter is slipping into his jacket and backing to the door.

“You’re safe here, Jason. I don’t expect you to believe that right away. I’d actually be a little concerned if you did,” Dick pauses, laughing weakly. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Just… do what you need to do, okay? You’re welcome to the sleeping bag, and any food that’s downstairs. Though, we do ration, so I ask you don’t go crazy. Trevor’s in charge when I’m gone: tall, skinny kid with bright red hair. He’s got the other cellphone, so if you need me, talk to him. But, I do ask that the phone only be used for emergencies. Minute cards can get pretty pricey, and,” Dick pauses, dragging out the word, “I’m talking too much.”

Dick’s smile, Jason thinks, though genuine, is a little hesitant this time, smaller than before but still just as warm.

“I know, rules. The worst,” Dick laughs lightly. “Okay, well I’ll shut up now. Try and get some sleep, Jay, okay?”

Jason doesn’t say anything, only watching passively as Dick slips out of the room and closes the door. There’s no lock, but Jason’s quietly thankful as he’s not a fan of small, locked spaces. For a few minutes, he paces, his mind at war with the exhaustion bleeding across his limbs. He needs sleep; he knows this. However, sleep brings dreams, and dreams fade into nightmares, into dark, fragments or reality that twist and bend against his fears.

But then he pauses mid-pace, his eyes falling back to the stack of books, and of all the stupid, mundane things for his mind to get hung up on, he can’t quite shake the way “Jay” sounds coming from Dick’s mouth. He’s not one for nicknames. Hell, he’s not even really one for names. Names are the first step to introductions, and introductions lead to acquaintances, and acquaintances lead to more, and more always, Jason knows, ends in pain.

Still, “Jay” sounds familiar when it comes from Dick. Secure. Jason shakes his head in a poor attempt to rid his mind of these thoughts. He’s not fucking staying. That’s the one thought that’s clear in his mind, but he also doesn’t wish to die, for real this time, and his previous shelter connections he’s banked on for winter are gone. For now, this is the best he’s going to get. No attachments. Just walls and a roof, an empty shell for an empty person.

He snags one of the books he hasn’t read and flops down onto the sleeping bag. Sleep will probably bare sharp, gnarly fangs, but maybe, Jason thinks, he can control the dreams if he distracts himself with someone else’s story.

***

In the end, Jason nods off, book opened and abandoned on his chest. He dreams of his mother, of a life that’s so far gone now, it doesn’t seem real. He dreams of the tires he tried to snag off an expensive car, only to get busted by one prominent billionaire Bruce Wayne. And then his dreams flicker and swirl until he’s dropped against a green backdrop, and a manic laugh echoes against the bare walls. He’s on his back, but when he tries to sit up, he collides with dirt and wood, and his stomach bottoms out. His heart plummets, pushed down against a pressing weight of fear, and his shaking hands find the top of…

“No,” he calls out, fingers digging into the wood, shards splintering against his skin, cutting into it. “No,” he repeats, desperate. “Not again. This is not happening again.” His voice is trembling as hard as his limbs, an icy cold wave of fear crushing him. He lays back for a moment, grounding himself, and the wood underneath him grows softer, warmer.

“This isn’t real,” he starts.

“Jason.”

“Not fucking real,” he repeats, and the green walls begin to fade to a darker wood.

“Jason.”

“This,” he starts again, gritting his teeth, “isn’t fucking real.”

“Jason!”

Jason jerks awake, chest sucking in sharp, strangled gasps. He blinks quickly, his surroundings swaying, still tainted green.

“You’re at the warehouse,” a small voice says beside him, and he whips his gaze to see a young girl with long, matted brown hair watching him.

“You’re in Dick’s room. In his sleeping bag.”

He can hear her voice, but he can’t process her words.

“You’re at the warehouse,” she repeats, and he rasps it out back to her.

“I’m at the warehouse.” His voice is no more than a pained croak, but the young girl seems unfazed.

“You’re in Dick’s room.”

“I’m in Dick’s room,” he parrots back, and his surroundings begin to clear, the haze of the dream fading away to a dimly lit room of old, wooden boards and a cracked window.

“You’re in his sleeping bag.”

He looks down and drags his hand across the ratty fabric. “I’m okay,” he whispers, and the girl leans back, a cautious smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m sorry to bother you. Dick told us not to. It’s just… You slept all night, and I thought you might be hungry.”

Jason’s eyes flick behind the girl to see a plate of eggs and a glass of water left on the floor by the door. He’s not sure that he’s hungry, not for food at least. No, his lungs tremble, instead, for nicotine. He’s slow to bring his eyes back to the girl. She can’t be more than 9 years old, and yet…

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Dick.”

Figures, Jason thinks. He slowly gets to his feet and shivers, a frown pulling at his lips as he walks to the window to feel the cold wind howling in through the cracks.

“Shit, it’s cold,” he hisses, and the young girl shrugs, her own arms hugging herself.

“There are a lot of little cracks in the windows and the wood. Dick’s going to patch them; he just… he’s got a lot on his plate. Sometimes it takes him a little longer to get to it. But, that’s okay. It’s warmer when we’re all together.”

Frown still playing on his lips, Jason turns from the window, eyeing the young girl. “Show me the other places that need to be patched.” If he can’t sleep, he might as well do something with his hands.

The young girl, Jenny, as he learned, though he didn’t ask, takes him to every area she knows that’s been worn down enough or broken to the point that the wind can seep in, some spots far bigger than the others. He can see where pervious spots Dick’s patched are wearing down, small, old boards of woods half hanging on broken nails or chipping away.

“Like I said, there’s a lot, but—”

“What’s a lot?”

Jenny and Jason whip around, and Jenny’s face lights up. “Dick!” She rushes to him, and Dick’s quick to crouch down and offer a hug, though, he keeps a questioning eye on Jason, one that Jason rolls his eyes at.

“Hey, Jenny. What’re you two up to?”

“Jason had a nightmare, and now I’m showing him all of the holes that need to be fixed so it’s not as cold.”

The breath Jason lets out is carefully calculated, controlled, because if not, he’d storm out of the warehouse and never look back. Fucking kids, he thinks.

“Is that so?” Dick says as he gets to his feet. His tone is light, but his eyes have clouded over into…. Worry? Jason’s not sure, but if he had to guess, he’d say Dick’s worried about him. Tired, but worried, and he’s not entirely sure what to do with this, so he scowls.

“Jenny, why don’t you give us a few minutes. Go finish your breakfast.”

Nodding, Jenny tugs at Dick’s sleeve, and Dick crouches down, and though, she whispers, Jason can hear every word because since when do kids know how to fucking whisper?

“The nightmare seemed real bad, but I did that thing you taught me.”

Dick’s expression is annoyingly unreadable, and Jason turns around and stalks off to inspect a different hole, hearing Dick’s quiet “good work” before he takes a corner down an abandoned hallway and prods his finger through a pretty large gap.

He can hear Dick approach him, but, like the first time they met, Dick keeps a decent distance between the two, and Jason’s silently thankful.

“You okay?”

There it fucking is, Jason thinks. The blatant, unfiltered, vulnerable concern he does not want or need. He should leave. He should part ways and forget about Dick. But, the cold breeze seeping in brings him out his thoughts and back to the present, and considering how cold he was when he woke, and how it’s not even November yet, he can only imagine how much colder it will get. And those kids…

“This warehouse needs work,” Jason says instead, motioning toward a hole in the wall.

“I know,” Dick sighs, and for a breath of a moment, Jason regrets the bitter words that left his tongue. Passive Dick is not something he thinks he wants to see.

“I’ll do it.”

Dick blinks slowly, processing, and then he’s shaking his head.

“What? No, Jason, I’ve got this. I just need to get supplies—”

“—and, what?” Jason snaps. “Slap a band-aid on until next year? No. This shit needs to be properly fixed.” He steps toward Dick, only inches from being flush against Dick’s chest. They’re similar in size. Dick’s got muscles over him, but Jason’s able to meet his eyes without craning his neck. “Those kids are your family, right?”

“I— _yes_. Of course.”

“Then you need to take care of them. Properly.”

Dick takes a step back, and Jason can feel his eyes on his face. He’s waiting for Dick to snap, but Dick only sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You can fix these? Properly?”

No, Jason thinks. He needs to read up on it—see what he can do to permanently fix minor issues that keep building until they’re not so minor. “I need… books,” he says, inwardly cursing himself because it sounded about as stupid as it did in his head. “How-to books or whatever.”

“We can go to the library, if you want? I can’t check out books, but you could take notes?”

Jason nods, and of all things, Dick smiles at him. It’s irking, and yet, Jason doesn’t want it to go away.

“Great. Just give me a little bit to wash up. I’ll grab some of the kids—they like to go look through the picture books.”

***

Jason’s not sure what he was expecting when Dick said library—some small, run down shop that’s poorly attempting to convert itself into a library, he guesses, so when they walk up to Gotham City Library, a large building he’s only ever dreamed of getting lost in, he swallows thickly.

“Everything okay?”

Dick’s at his side, eyeing him cautiously, and it takes Jason a long moment to realize he stopped in the middle of the street, and they’re about to lose their crosswalk time.

“Yeah,” Jason mutters, and he only flinches slightly when Dick prompts him forward with a gentle hand to the small of his back.

It’s bigger than Jason anticipates when he enters, and busier. He’s lost in the sight alone, itching to get his hands on every book he can manage, and he only comes to when an unfamiliar voice shouts far too loud for library etiquette.

“Dick Grayson!”

Jason whips a gaze to the left to see a young woman in a wheelchair maneuvering out from behind the receptionist desk.

“Babs!” Dick shouts back, and Jason has to bite back the urge to tell both to shut the hell up as he follows the kids over to the girl.

“Hi, Barbara!”

“Do you have any new picture books for us?”

The girl, Barbara, smiles fondly at the kids, answering all their rapid-fire questions with what looks to be familiar ease. Jason watches, hanging in the back, but then she addresses him, wheeling over to him and extending her hand.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Barbara Gordon.”

Jason doesn’t take her hand, frowning instead. “Gordon? James Gordon’s daughter?” He’d heard about her, about the accident specifically as it made every Gotham news outlet headline for weeks. Terrible tragedy, he remembers reading. Daughter of GCPD Commissioner paralyzed at the hands of the Joker.

She drops her hand, and though she doesn’t frown, her face drops, and something tells Jason that she gets this a lot.

“Yes.”

GCPD turning a “blind eye,” as Dick said, to their squatting suddenly makes way more sense to Jason, and for once, he can’t help but wonder what other surprises Dick’s going to subtly drop on him.

“Babs, this is Jason. He’s currently staying with us.”

Jason didn’t hear Dick walk up to his side.

“Jason,” Barbara says slowly, her eyes, if possible, are even more studious than Dick’s. She’s not looking at Jason; she’s looking through him, at this skeleton, his bones that make up his infrastructure, and Jason wants to run. Her eyes feel encompassing, and the pricking tug of claustrophobia is beginning to pull lightly at his lungs.

“You look familiar Jason. Have we met before?”

The light tugs gives way to budding panic, and Jason turns on his heel. “No,” he snaps. He turns to Dick, briefly meeting Dick’s eyes to see, once again, that the dark blue is clouded in worry. “I’m gonna go,” Jason motions around, “books.”

He storms off, ignoring Dick’s call out to him, and dives down an aisle. It’s fiction romance, and he scoffs, bobbing and weaving through aisles until he finds a how-to section. He grabs every book about insulation and old home repairs he can carry and finds an empty table. He’s not quiet when he drops the books on the table, unsure of what the point is in respecting basic library rules whenever Dick’s out loudly running his big mouth in some show of reunion.

He snags the folded paper in his pocket, a page ripped from a coloring book, and flips it over to the blank backside. The pencil he grabs next is dull, but it’s usable, and that’s all Jason needs. He starts flipping through books, brows furrowed.

“Can I sit here?”

Jason only flicks a brief gaze to see yet another kid looking at him expectantly.

“No. Go find another table.”

“The rest are occupied.”

Jason looks up fully this time, frown sharp. “So is this one. Now scram.” He holds the kid’s dark gaze for an endless minute, the kid proving to be passively stubborn, and then, the kid sits. He just fucking sits across from Jason and rummages around his bag until he pulls out a laptop.

“What the fuck,” Jason hisses lowly, and the kid only shrugs and starts typing away at his laptop.

He wants to move, but one glance around shows most tables already having 2 to 3 people seated at them, so he settles for a long, exaggerated sigh, one he’s sure to drag out. Though, the kid’s seemingly unfazed, and so Jason stops, accepting small defeat, and turns back to his books.

He keeps seeing an acronym, DIY, littered throughout the paragraphs in many different books, and as many times as he’s tried to incorporate insulation into that, he can’t work out what the other two letters mean. Groaning lowly, he doesn’t mean to mutter out loud, but he does, his frustration getting the better of him. “The hell is DIY?” he grumbles under his breath.

“Do it yourself.”

Jason shoots a narrow gaze to the kid across from him. “The hell did you just say?”

“Do it yourself,” the kid repeats, voice flat, seemingly a little bored, and Jason gets to his feet, frustration mounting, and he leans in close toward the kid, voice low, dangerous.

“Look here, you little, fucking prick. All I wanted to do was look up how to fix some damn holes in this old ass building so a bunch of kids far more grateful than your privileged ass don’t freeze to death this winter.”

The kid blinks blankly at him, and then he types on his computer and spins it around to show Jason. Jason scans the Google page, eyes flicking across the content result block that explains the acronym DIY, short for ‘do it yourself.’

Jason’s mouth slowly rounds to a soft ‘oh’ shape. He can feel the embarrassment creeping up his neck, a hot, red flush that stops at the tips of his ears, but then, before he can spin the computer back to the kid, his eyes flick to the open tabs at the top of the screen, and the heat of embarrassment drains away to cold dread.

_Is the Joker working with Penguin?_

_Mass Weapon Transportation?_

_Is the Joker planning an attack from the inside?_

The pit in Jason’s stomach is hard, twisting ice, and it’s cold enough to freeze his breath in his lungs. “Why are you looking _him_ up?”

For the first time, the kid’s brows furrow, a semblance of emotion flicking across his sharp features.

“What?”

“Joker,” Jason presses, louder, only faintly aware that he sounds somewhat desperate, his voice cracking slightly. “Why are you looking into Joker?”

Frowning, the kid snatches his computer back and slams it shut. “That’s not your business—”

“—it _is_ my business!” Jason’s losing control. He’s shaking from head to toe, and his vision’s tunneling, closing in, making everything seem too small and too tight. He tries desperately to rationalize. Joker’s locked up, he tells himself. But another voice starts to filter through his racing thoughts.

You like how that feels, it says in an eerie, high-pitched chirp of a voice that rings across Jason’s mind.

I can’t wait to see you bruise.

You’re filth.

You’re nothing.

You’ll die—

“Jason!”

Jason shoves Dick’s hand away, his surroundings coming back far too fast. Everything’s coming back too fast, too loud, too bright. Dick’s eyes are blinding him; they’re too close, too blue, drowning Jason, and Jason can’t breathe. He tries, but his lungs won’t expand with air. It’s as if the air never makes it that far down, getting trapped by a boulder in his throat, suffocating him. He stumbles away from everyone, away from the noise, the colors, the enclosure.

“Jason, wait!”

“Give him a minute. He’s having a panic attack.”

Jason can hear Dick talking with the kid, their voices fading against the roar in his ears as he slams the doors open and sucks in a large, trembling gasp of cold air, coughing harshly against it. With shaking hands, he reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, a selfish splurge with the money Dick gave him the day before, and his scraped-up lighter. He almost drops a cigarette twice before he manages to lightly clamp his chattering teeth against it, and it takes seven flicks of the flame until he’s got a light.

When he inhales, the nicotine pushes past the boulder, breaks it down, until smokey air is filling his lungs. He exhales around a few coughs, and he slowly eases himself down onto the steps below him, for once not caring of the nasty, side-eyed looks he gets from people passing by.

He knows how he looks. Dirty. Disheveled. Scarred to holy hell. A broken person half-assed put back together. He takes in another puff and holds it in his chest, releasing only when he hears Dick behind him.

“Jay?”

Dick’s voice is alarmingly soft and cautious, and Jason only nods, feeling oddly more relieved at the stupid nickname as Dick takes a seat beside him.

“Are you—”

“—yeah,” Jason interrupts, tired, withdrawn. “I’m fine.” He can tell, even without looking, that Dick wants to press, but out of respect, Dick remains quiet at his side, and Jason, if he knew how to properly verbalize his feelings, would thank Dick for just _getting_ it.

“The kids?” He finally asks, and Dick briefly glances over his shoulder.

“Inside with Barbara.”

“Ah, right,” Jason drags out, eager for a distraction. “The commissioner’s daughter. Is she why you’re so friendly with the GCPD?”

“She may have put in a good word or two on my behalf.”

Jason hums, and for a few minutes, he just sits, puffing on his cigarette, allowing the nicotine to edge away at his frayed nerves, and Dick stays with him, quiet, grounded.

Finally, Dick asks the question Jason’s been waiting for.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jason’s answer is immediate, firm, and Dick doesn’t press it. But Jason has a sinking feeling that sooner or later, Dick’s going to pry an answer out of him. Jason tells himself he’ll be sure to be gone before that happens.

“Are you ready to go?”

Nodding, Jason gets to his feet, his muscles, still tense, objecting from the sudden weight paired with the cold. He tosses his cigarette, and he and Dick walk back up the remaining steps and meet the kids and Barbara just outside the door. Beside Barbara is the same kid Jason lost his shit on. Realistically, he should apologize, but fuck that, he thinks. The kid’s still a prick.

“You shouldn’t stick your nose into business like that,” he says instead, voice surprisingly calm. “It’s dangerous.”

“And you should dust off your acronym knowledge,” the kid fires back flatly, dropping a bag of books at Jason’s feet. “I checked out a few books that will actually help with your problem. Appropriate _DIYs_.”

Jason’s hands clench into fists at his sides. His anger is bubbling, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to stop himself from decking this prick.

“They’re under my name, so they’ll need to be returned in two weeks. You can just drop them off in the outdoor drop box.”

With that, the kid leaves, shouldering his backpack and starting down the steps. Jason watches, jaw clenched tightly, as Dick snags the bag and looks to Barbara.

“Who is that?”

Barbara sighs, crossing her arms. “Timothy Drake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> I'm loving all the comments so far!


	5. richard (Dick)

Dick sends the kids back to the warehouse with Jason, and though there’s some whining about how unfair it is they don’t get to go with him, Dick promises to bring back the candy and baked goods he’s sure he’ll be sent back with, as he always is when he steps inside the market and café.

He could have brought them with him, if it were still early morning or evening, but with Roy’s shift already starting, he doesn’t want to risk the kids seeing him while on shift for they all have unfiltered, uncaring mouths on them, and he just knows they’d all be over the moon to see Roy.

So, he sends them back with Jason, and once the whining died down, they all willingly agreed, grabbing at Jason’s hands and chatting his ear off. Dick’s sure he’ll hear about it later, but he thinks that this may be good for Jason, mindless, child chatter to distract him from whatever it is that he’s holing up in a cracking bottle.

Dick watched them leave, and then he turned on his heel and made his way to Queen’s, and now he’s planted in front of the door, a hesitant hand resting atop the doorknob. He’s being silly, at least he tries to rationalize, but there’s something about the entire situation that’s bringing forth a small, nagging hint of reluctance.

“Everything alright, son?”

Dick jumps, a sheepish smile already tugging at his lips as he spins around, one hand instinctively finding the back of his neck. “Yes, sir. Sorry.” He pulls the door open and steps aside to let the man through first. “After you.”

The man mumbles a quiet thank you, and Dick steps in after him, watching as he ducks down an aisle and practically disappears behind a shelf. 

“Dick Grayson!”

Dick eyes linger where the man was once standing for just a moment longer before he turns to Oliver with a wide smile. “Hey, Mr. Queen!”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Oliver, Dick?”

“Not going to happen, Mr. Queen,” Dick teases, approaching the counter, a wide smile spread across his lips.

“No littles today?”

“I’m flying solo,” Dick answers, and Oliver pouts a little too dramatically, enough to pull a laugh from Dick’s lips. Damn, he thinks. He needed this.

“And here I was hoping to see my favorite kids today.”

“I thought I was your favorite,” Dick drags out, matching Oliver’s pout with his own, and Oliver barks out a hearty laugh, a warm sound that encompasses the whole store, and when it filters away naturally, Oliver’s smile drops slightly, and he leans toward Dick over the counter.

“How are you all doing, really? It’s getting colder out now. Are you all okay?”

“That’s actually why I’m here,” Dick starts, keeping a smile despite Oliver’s frown. He knows that Oliver Queen would do anything for him, and he also knows that Oliver would offer him a job in a heartbeat if he had an ID. Their bond’s grown over the four years they’ve known each other.

Oliver stumbled upon one of the kids, who wandered away from the warehouse and got lost. He escorted the kid back to the warehouse, and he was prepared, at the time, to contact GCPD and CPS on the spot, but then Dick appeared, and he must’ve looked downright terrible, a worried mess of a teenager, and the escapee had ran straight into his arms. It only took that small show for Oliver to pocket his cell phone, and since then, he’s been helping out as much as he can.

“Patch work?”

“Sort of,” Dick starts, sighing. “I’ve got this new one, Jason. He’s going to try for more permanent fixes.”

“Ah, you’ve got yourself a handyman?”

Dick wishes he could say yes, but then again, Jason cussed out a teenager because he didn’t know what DIY stood for, so… “Not quite, but we’ll see.”

“Well, you’re welcome to whatever you need in the back. I also snagged myself a new boy, Roy Harper. He’s a spitball, that’s for sure. But he’s got a good head on his shoulders; reminds me a lot of you, actually. Let me…”

Oliver pages for Roy over the comm above, and Dick keeps his face passively eager, a small, polite show of excitement, but when Roy comes from around the back, he pauses in his step, and Dick watches as Roy’s eyes grow wide with nerves.

Dick swallows thickly and steps toward Roy, extending a hand his way. “Hi, Roy. I’m Dick.” It hurts more than he expects, but Roy’s thriving, if he goes by appearances alone. He looks good, better than he ever looked at the warehouse. His cheeks have filled in a little more, and his eyes appear more lively and aware, albeit a little unfocused.

Roy takes his hand, and though he mutters through a neutral greeting, his eyes are screaming apologies that Dick can easily read. He offers a familiar smile, one he uses when Roy’s feeling as if he’s one step shy of ruining everything.

“Roy, Dick here has been helping take care of homeless kids. Whenever he swings by for supplies, help him out for me, okay? He’s a good guy.”

“Will do,” Roy says, and Dick can see how much respect Roy holds for Oliver, with his straightened posture and slightly puffed out chest.

“Let me take you to the supply room,” Roy starts, and Dick follows him to the back. Roy carries himself calmly until he’s sure it’s just the two of them, and then his face crumples, and Dick sighs.

“Roy—”

“No, shit, Dick. Don’t. I’m literally the worst person ever. Oliver _respects_ you. There’s no reason he’d think any less of me if he found out I spent the better half of my youth there.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It _does_ , though.” Roy stresses, and he starts pacing the length of the supply room, wringing his hands. “I’m lying to him. I’m acting like I’m embarrassed, like he’ll think I’m not worth much of anything if he finds out I spent 9 years living in a fucking warehouse, and that’s just not fair to anyone—”

Dick wrapping two, strong arms around Roy’s slightly trembling frame cuts Roy off, and Roy melts into the hug. Dick welcomes the familiar body flush against his. He’s still be finding his footing as the sole leader without Roy there to balance him out. He misses Roy, but dammit if he isn’t positively ecstatic to see Roy looking so healthy, so much like the 22-year-old he’s supposed to look like.

“Better?” Dick asks, and Roy only nods, sighing deeply as the two pull away. Dick keeps his hands on Roy’s shoulders for a moment, his eyes conversing wordlessly with Roy’s, and then Roy finally steps away and clear his throat.

“How do you always do that, man?”

Dick cocks his head to the side. “Do what?”

“Make my insides go all soft and mushy.”

Dick prods at Roy’s chest, a sharp smile pulled at his lips. “I’ve got the magic touch, baby.”

“I hate you so much.”

Dick only hums and starts thumbing through wooden panels of varying sizes. He’s not sure what Jason needs, so he figures he’ll grab as much as he can carry alone. “Help me carry this out back?”

Dick grabs a few, bouncing them in his arms to see if he can comfortably carry them back to the warehouse alone. He starts out the back exit, with Roy hot on his heels.

“Hey,” Roy starts, “what ever happened to—”

“—Jason?” Dick stops in his tracks, and Roy bumps into his back, his wood panels knocking into Dick’s.

Jason’s propped up against the back side of Queen’s, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and Roy curses quietly in Dick’s ear.

“Fuck. Think he still remembers that he wants to slit my throat?”

Dick ignores Roy in favor of dropping the wood panels onto the ground. He starts toward Jason, roughly ten questions hot on his lips.

“They’re fine,” Jason answers, holding one hand up as he tosses his cigarette with the other. “We bumped into the tall red head leaving the dollar store. He said he’ll walk them back.” He steps around Dick and starts inspecting the wood panels, showing zero regard to Roy, and Dick whips around with a sigh.

“Roy, this is Jason.”

Roy drags an index finger horizontally across his neck, his eyes wide with silent questions, and Dick just rolls his eyes. “Jay, how come you didn’t go back?” He leaves the rest unsaid, how he figures Jason’s probably exhausted after his panic attack, and Jason only grunts and snags a few wooden panels similar in length.

“These should work. Can we get about 10 of these?”

Jason, Dick notes, directs the question to Roy, and Roy wordlessly nods and disappears into the supply room, returning just moments later with many panels wobbling in his arms.

“I’ll take these up to the front of the shop.”

Dick follows Roy back inside, and Jason trails along beside him without prompt. He leads Jason through the supply room, quietly explaining how Oliver helps them out whenever he can, and when they approach the register, Oliver waves them over, a bag of candy and baked goods resting on the counter.

“You really don’t have to do all this, Mr. Queen,” Dick starts as he picks through the bag, already mentally rationing who will get what.

“Hush, Dick.” Oliver looks over Dick’s shoulder, and Dick can physically feel Jason tense behind him.

“You must be Jason.” Oliver cocks his head to the side, and Dick cranes his neck to see Jason bow his head to the floor.

“You look familiar, son. Have I seen you before?”

“I’ll be outside,” Jason mutters to Dick, and Dick frowns, watching, worried, as Jason slips out the door, his posture hunched forward, a defensive stance Dick’s seen worn by one too many kids and teens alike.

“He seems troubled.”

Dick jumps, and he whips around to see the same man he held the door for standing behind him, tall, but not much taller than Dick, and dark eyes that appear guarded, similar to Jason’s.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Stop sneaking up on people, B. Christ. Learn to walk a little louder, would ya?”

Dick smiles, a nervous laugh slipping past his lips. “It’s fine.” He grabs the bag off the counter and offers Oliver a nod of thanks. “See you soon, Mr. Queen.” He turns to the door, stopping to offer a polite nod to the other man as well. “Sir.”

The man nods back. “Richard.”

Dick whips around and shoves the door open. He can’t quite place it, but he really needs to get away from the pressing gaze burning a hole in his back. It feels intrusive, like it’s dissecting him, tearing skin away to his core, and he can only imagine Jason feels the same, hence his abrupt exit.

“Good news,” Roy starts when Dick stumbles over to the two. “He’s not actually going to slit my throat.” Roy claps a hand to Jason’s shoulder, a wide smile seeming out of place paired against the other two. “Isn’t that right, Jay?”

“It’s Jason,” Jason spits out, and Dick ignores both in favor of gathering as many wooden planks as he can.

“Let’s go, Jay.”

Wordlessly, Jason gathers the remaining wooden planks, and Dick guides the two across the street, only faintly aware of Roy’s sharp shouting of “how come I can’t call you ‘Jay?’ echoing around the cars whirring past.

Dick walks briskly forward, and though he tries to think of anything and everything else, he can’t shake the deep growl of “Richard” from his mind. He’s heard it before; it’s been years, but he’s definitely heard it before, that dark timbre that can make his single name have 8 different meanings. He tries to place it, but he keeps hitting a block, a mental, locked box that he willingly chooses not to open, to keep tucked far, far back in his mind. Still, he can hear the man’s voice so clearly, and he can see the word, see his full name written across his mind. It shifts and twists into the shape of a key, and before he can fully comprehend what’s happening, the box is opening, and he’s thrust back to the circus, young, vulnerable eyes watching his parents hit the ground.

The chaos that follows is deafening in his ears, muffled screaming that clashes with a piercing ring that’s growing louder, and louder. He can hear people shouting his name, but then he hears a deep, almost desperate, growl of “Richard,” and he whips around blindly, spotting the one man who’s still amongst the rushing crowds of people.

He doesn’t know the man, but the voice, the way the man’s lips curl around his name, are so familiar, an evident nod to his father, so he starts toward it, one hand reaching out toward the man. But then someone strong latches an arm around his waist, hoisting him up, blocking his view, and he crumbles, sobbing into a strong, broad chest.

“Dick!”

The circus melts away to cold wind, towering trees, grass bunched beneath his hands, and Jason’s crouched in front of him, looking positively freaked. Dick lifts a shaking hand to his face, feeling his cheeks damp with tears.

“Fuck,” Dick breathes out, voice shaking, and Jason nods slowly, face a mess of emotions that Dick can’t work through.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. He drops down into a seated position across from Dick. “Fuck.”

“I don’t—” Dick swallows thickly, his throat tight. “That guy at Queen’s… He just… I think he was there the night my parents died.”

Jason stays silent before him, and Dick just starts talking. He tells Jason about Haley’s Circus, about his parents falling to their deaths, about the foster families that lined up to get their hands on the broken gymnast, and about how he ran from the first takers. He talked about he felt like he was trapped in this empty void, about how he wandered the streets for weeks, dodging the police, keeping his head low at the mere mention of CPS. He just… talked, his forte, as everyone likes to remind him, and Jason just listened. He didn’t interject; he hardly reacted. He just _listened_.

When he finishes, the air that expels from his lungs is loose and long, breath he’s been holding for quite a while now. “Sorry,” he mutters, and Jason cocks his head to the side.

“Do you always air out your baggage to people you barely know?”

“No,” Dick admits. He doesn’t share his troubles with anyone. He’s learned all too quickly that his story is just another black edge piece to the dark painting that is Gotham. He could dwell on it, share is burdens with everyone he meets, or he could try and grow from a dark past and bring bright colors to others who need it more than him.

“Well,” Jason draws out after a moment. “I was right.”

Dick’s ears take a moment to send Jason’s words to his head, but when they do, he blinks quickly, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Remember when I said I’d slit your heels?”

Frowning, Dick nods. It was only a couple of days ago, but with everything that’s happened since then, it feels more like a couple of years.

“You’re light on your feet. I figured you were a gymnast or something. Seemed like slitting your heels would be more effective.”

Dick laughs at this, his chest feeling warm, and he stands, wipes away a few stray tears with the back of his hand, and offers a hand to Jason. “You’re very astute.” Jason takes his hand, and he tugs the other up.

“You learn on the streets,” Jason says flatly, picking his share of the wood panels back up, “to read people. To survive.”

Dick hums in agreement, and when Jason lights a cigarette, Dick plucks it from Jason’s fingers before he can slip it between his mouth.

“What the fuck, Dick?”

Dick rolls the lit cigarette between his thumb and index finger for a moment before clips it between his lips and takes in a long inhale.

“You smoke?”

“No,” Dick coughs harshly, passing the cigarette back to Jason. His lungs burn, and this throat feels weird and wrong. He coughs again, his chest tight, but then Jason laughs beside him. Well, Dick thinks, it was more of a light huff under his breath, but Dick will take it.

“You’re so fucking weird, Dick.”

***

Dick’s loading his seventh box when his boss gets his third call of the night. He’s already on edge, so he answers the phone gruffly.

“What now? My guy’s working as fast as he can.”

He makes a motion to Dick, waving his hand about, and Dick nods and picks up his pace as much as he can under the heavy weight of each box.

“You’re calling me about this kid again?”

Dick drops a box a little too loudly, and he mouths ‘sorry’ at the sharp glare his boss shoots him.

“Look, he’s probably just some nosey brat with nothing better to do. Just ignore him and get back to work.”

Dick pushes himself a little harder and a little faster, testing the waters with two boxes at a time. His muscles tremble under the added weight, but he clenches his teeth and bears it.

“Look, fine. Since your lot’s so incompetent, I’ll swing by Iceberg when we’re done here and get the brat. Got it?” He ends the call, and Dick can feel his eyes on him. “You in a rush tonight?”

“I figured I’d go for double time since you’ve got more stuff to handle when I’m done.”

“Don’t eavesdrop on my phone calls, kid.”

Nodding, Dick pulls his focus back to his work. He finishes an hour and a half earlier than normal, and his boss grunts a meek “good work” as he hands Dick his daily pay.

He’s shaky as leaves the garage, his muscles trembling with each step, but once he’s out of sight, he forces his legs into a jog. His heart’s guiding his adrenaline. He’s got a sinking feeling deep in his stomach that if he doesn’t get to this kid before his boss does, then there will be yet another poor kid a victim of Gotham City.

By running, he shaves 5 minutes off his travel back to the warehouse. He slips in quickly but quietly, avoiding each creaky floorboard as he creeps up the steps to his room. He slips in silently, keeping his back to the door.

“Jason,” he whispers loudly, and Jason jerks awake instantly, gaze sharp and annoyed.

“I don’t know what time it is, Dick, but it’s definitely not time for you to come sneaking in here and waking me up.”

Jason’s voice is low, gravelly with sleep, but Dick ignores it in favor of snagging Jason’s boots from beside the door.

“I need your help.”

“No.”

“There’s this kid my boss is going after tonight, and I’m worried about what will happen to him if I don’t get there first.”

“No,” Jason repeats, sharper.

“He’s hanging around Iceberg Lounge for some reason—”

Jason’s on his feet in a flash, and he rips his boots from Dick’s hand. “What dumbass kid hangs around one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham?” He slips his socked feet into his boots and rakes rough fingers through his hair. “I can get us there in 20 by foot, but you aren’t going to like the way.”

For the first time since work, Dick pauses, really contemplating what he’s going into, what he’s asking Jason to go into, but there’s a fire in Jason’s eyes, different than the one from his fight over the cigarettes. It burns brighter, more determined, and Dick feeds off it. He nods and steps aside.

“Lead the way, Jay.”

They start down the steps, moving quiet yet deliberate, and they’re half out the door when a small voice calls out in a loud whisper from the stairs.

“Jason?”

They both freeze, and Dick’s slow to crane his neck to see Jenny standing on the landing and rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Dick considers stepping in, and on any other day, he would have already, as it comes naturally to him, but Jenny’s addressing Jason specifically, and Dick’s mutely curious to see how Jason addresses the situation.

“Uh, no,” Jason stammers slightly, whispering just loud enough for Jenny to hear. “Dick and I need to step out for a little bit.”

“Are you coming back?”

“What—of course I am. Now, go back to sleep, okay?”

Jenny turns to start back toward the second-floor room everyone shares, and Dick waits until she’s out of sight to slip out of the door, closing it behind Jason.

“She likes you,” he draws out, and Jason sighs loudly at his side.

“Shut the fuck up, Dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to upload last week, and I forgot again Friday. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> you ever just hit with a want to write, so you just go with it? that's me right now.


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